The Quaker and the Rebel (36 page)

“Yes, sir.” Saluting, Dawson started kicking dirt into the fire.

Alexander turned back to Smith, still restrained by two men. His eye had already begun to swell shut, and bright blood stained his white shirt. “Captain Smith, you will take the other half due west. If any of you are captured with me, you will be hung for sure. You’ll have your best chance of survival if I’m not in direct command. You men fought bravely tonight and made me proud. You’ve been a credit to
the Confederacy. May God keep you safe until we are reunited.” He offered a final salute to the soldiers who until that night had served him without bloodshed.

Captain Smith didn’t return his salute like the other soldiers, but at least he mounted up and did as ordered. No one questioned where the colonel was headed or when he would call their regiment together. No one dared.

Once they had broken camp, Alexander rode off in the early hours of dawn. He’d had enough of this war. After his fistfight with Smith, he no longer recognized the man he’d become. Heading deep into the Shenandoah Mountains, he paused only long enough to rest his horse. He hadn’t slept in two days and wouldn’t until that night. The road he traveled finally thinned to a narrow mountain trace he knew no Union cavalry would find. Only locals knew about and used these paths for hunting or visiting their kin. Every road went nowhere—exactly where the Gray Wraith wanted to be.

Alexander spotted a low-hanging spruce tree close to a patch of late fall grass. With his horse watered and tethered on a long rope to graze, he wrapped himself in his blanket and immediately fell asleep until the following midday. He dreamed of rangers with wild flashing eyes firing point blank at Union cavalry and of his men dying on Uncle Thaddeus’s blood-stained lawn.

His dreams were also filled with a red-haired woman whose laughter still echoed in his ears. Emily reached for him in the dream and called his name, her scent of lemon balm soothing like an elixir. With her hair spilling across her shoulders like a lion’s mane, she’d splashed through a shallow stream with bare feet and her skirt clutched in one fist. As she beckoned, the woman seemed a blinding brightness in his dark world of death. He followed her to a secret grotto where only pure light could penetrate. He wanted to cling to her, but she stayed just beyond his grasp. Like a drowning man in a turbulent river, he struggled. Then she vanished with the morning mist.

Alexander woke tangled in his blanket. Casting off the heavy wool, he scraped his face with his hands to rid himself of the dream.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t forget memories of Emily quite so easily. She would haunt his waking thoughts as well. Had she and William safely reached Front Royal? Was that even where they were headed? Or were Smith’s accusations correct—had she led the Yankee cavalry straight to Middleburg? His heart ached from worry and frustration. Struggling to light a fire in the damp woods, Alexander refused to believe Emily would betray his men. He’d watched her catch moths to release outdoors before they died in a candle’s flame. If she had such compassion for the smallest of God’s creatures, could she think so little of His greatest? No, despite her politics and headstrong will, he was certain Emily would never cause the loss of so many lives.

Alexander had pledged a long time ago to never trust a woman again. His men looked to him for more than orders during a skirmish. They expected their commander not to endanger them unnecessarily in areas where battle lines changed frequently. If his faith in Emily had been misguided, then he was the one responsible for the debacle at Middleburg.

The following months passed in a blur. Alexander spent his time in the mindless activity of building a shelter—one he knew he would soon abandon—just to keep busy. He worked long days fashioning a lean-to from small trees, weaving pine boughs tightly together for the roof. The matting kept out all but the hardest of rains. He foraged for corn for his horse in a wide circle, returning to his camp each night. The supplies carried in his saddlebags had dwindled quickly, and food for himself was scarce. But it was his empty heart, not his empty stomach, that plagued him. Often when sleep refused to come, he would stare into the campfire remembering something Emily had said, or how she tossed her hair, or the petulant stamp of her foot. And of her words? More to the point, the words she hadn’t spoken at the harvest ball. He had earnestly professed his love, and she had stared at him with her cat-green eyes saying nothing. Despite his good intentions, despite
his vow made long ago, he realized he’d fallen in love that night…hopelessly, irrevocably in love.

Could Emily ever love a Southerner as she had loved her betrothed? One thing about the dead—memories of them improved with the passing of time.

And what of Smith’s accusations? It just wasn’t possible that she was a spy. She couldn’t manage to remember a sunhat to keep her nose from burning. Emily had risked her own life to save his in Middleburg. She had ridden into a hornet nest of trigger-happy soldiers from both sides. If she’d wished to betray him, she could have given his whereabouts to the Yankees and remained far removed from the consequences. No, he didn’t believe Smith’s loathsome assertion, but he would never learn the truth hiding in the mountains. He could ponder and surmise from sunrise to sunset with none to hear his ramblings but birds and an occasional curious fawn. With the Union cavalry still searching for him, he must bide his time. Then he would face her and listen to her side of what happened in Middleburg that night, besides her two mysterious trips to Berryville.

And pray his trusting heart hadn’t been fooled again.

News of the ambush of the Gray Wraith and his rangers spread across western Virginia almost before William and Emily returned from Middleburg. That fateful night, Emily dropped from her horse into Lila’s loving arms, more exhausted than ever before in her life. She couldn’t remember climbing the stairs to her room, or undressing, or slipping between the cool, pressed sheets in her room at Hunt Farms. She remembered nothing until she awoke at midday with Lila looming above her and commotion throughout the household.

“Wake up,” demanded Lila, pulling back the top sheet. “You must pack your things and then help Mrs. Bennington pack hers. I need to help pack the kitchen and pantry.”

Emily rubbed sleep from her eyes and struggled upright. “Where are we going?” Gratefully, she reached for the cup of coffee on her bedside table.

“Both Mr. Hunt and Dr. Bennington are moving their families from Hunt Farms to a safer area. There’s no time to spare.” Lila flew around the room opening drawers and armoire doors. “Because everyone now knows the identity of the Gray Wraith, the Yankees will soon be here searching for him. We aren’t that far from the Federal camp. Dr. Bennington said the Yankees might retaliate if they don’t find Mr. Alexander or his rangers.” Lila dumped a pile of dainties onto the bed.

Emily staggered to her wardrobe, pressing her fingertips to her temples. “How can we pack up a house this large?”

Lila pulled Emily’s trunk from the closet. “We can’t. Everyone is to take only their most cherished possessions, plus all the provisions from the cellar that will fit into the wagons. Mr. Hunt has already left with a tether of horses to turn over to the Confederate cavalry. He’s keeping only his prized stock and a few pregnant mares.” Her expression turned sympathetic toward the plantation owner. “He’ll be able to start over someday.”

Emily washed her face and dressed quickly. “What about the workers, Lila, slave and free? Mr. Lincoln’s edict doesn’t take effect until January.”

Lila upended a drawer into the trunk. “Mr. Hunt invited his free house staff to move to Richmond. Beatrice, Jack, and a few others accepted. Plus William, of course.” She angled a grin in Emily’s direction. “He’s leaving behind the slaves with food and a small stipend of cash. He gave each of his stable workers a horse to make their way north.”

Emily yanked dresses from the closet. “Will they go north with a battle raging all around us?”

“Most of them will. They’ll take their chances. But some have families in the area, so they will probably still be here when the Hunts return, no matter how long it takes.”

Emily stopped packing to reach for Lila’s hand. “Richmond is the heart of the Confederacy. Why not Martinsburg? And what about your family?”

She shrugged. “My parents are paid good wages. They will move wherever their jobs are. Dr. Bennington said their house in Martinsburg is probably overrun by soldiers, now that Berkeley County seceded from the state of Virginia and rejoined the United States.”

“What about Bennington Island? Your mother loved living there.”

“She would have no job on Bennington Island. Who knows what the new folks are like? Maybe they cook for themselves or maybe that house burned to the ground.” Lila shrugged her shoulders. “Mama won’t like living in a noisy, crowded city, but she would like joining former slaves living in tents even less. Everything is changing. Now, please, Emily, we must hurry.”

Everything changed for Emily too. Within twelve hours they left Front Royal in a slow caravan of buggies, wagons, and tethered horses and journeyed to Richmond along roads ruined by the constant movement of troops and artillery. Hampered by horrible weather, the trip took weeks as they joined hundreds entering a city already filled to capacity with freed blacks and homeless whites whose farms had been destroyed by the advancing Federal Army. Richmond also teemed with invalided soldiers and deserters from the Rebel Army.

A cold rain was falling on the slick, cobbled streets of Richmond where they finally arrived that dreary December day. James Hunt’s widowed Aunt Harriet graciously took them in, opening her faded mansion to both families along with their staffs. Harriet Cabot had little to share with her guests, however. The Federal blockade of the port effectively halted all shipments into the city. And what little still grew on the surrounding farms had to feed a lot of hungry mouths. Food was scarce in Richmond, and what could be found cost dearly. Long lines formed each morning in front of the bakery and green grocers. Matilde joined the queue each day to barter with something they had brought from Hunt Farms.

S
PRING
1863

Emily looked out from the parlor window on a bleak city of privation. Spring seemed to have bypassed this part of the world, despite what the calendar indicated. Yet the Benningtons and Hunts went about their business with the same rectitude that had always graced their lives. Dr. Bennington arrived at the sprawling Chimborazo Hospital on the outskirts of Richmond before dawn each day. A larger hospital had never existed in the world, yet it proved inadequate for the constant flow of sick and wounded, both Confederate and Yankee. Mr. Hunt moved his valuable horse stock to a rented stable on the James River, where he continued to buy and sell on a limited basis. Dignified Mrs. Hunt and quiet-mannered Mrs. Bennnington set about turning the run-down residence into a comfortable home for the two transplanted families. With plenty of room in her three-story mansion on Franklin Street, Mrs. Cabot appreciated the attention she received more than the physical help with chores. All but one of her slaves left following the effective date of the Emancipation Proclamation. The loyal maid who had remained wasn’t able to do more than cook simple meals for two old ladies and wash their frayed dresses in a tub on the porch. They acted more like sisters than employer and servant, fretting about each other’s aches and aliments.